John Donne has sunk in sleep...All things beside
are sleeping too: walls, bed, and floor-all sleep.
The power lines stretched
across the kingdom of frost
north of all music.
The old South Boston Aquarium stands
in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.
I’ll always be nothing.
I can’t even wish to be something.
The Waste Land is an American self-elegy masking as a mythological romance, a romantic crisis poem pretending to be an exercise in Christian Irony.
Late, by myself, in the boat of myself,
Up to the moment of the yellow sunset,
Un sauce de cristal, un chopo de agua,
Del aire al aire, como una red vacía,
The old pond-
a frog jumps in,
sound of water.
When Crow cried his mother's ear
Scorched to a stump.
Too old to carry arms and fight like the others -
Autumn is eating a leaf from my hand: we are friends.
Spring lies desolate.
The velvet-dark ditch
Μή, φίλα ψυχά, βίον ἀθάνατον
σπεῦδε, τὰν δ’ ἔμπρακτον ἄντλει μαχανάν.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Back home from the streetMy kid welcomes me at the doorThe world is a round eggA friend once told meA crowd of people suddenly emerges on the streetForcibly res
As Parmigianino did it, the right handBigger than the head, thrust at the viewerAnd swerving easily away, as though to protectWhat it advertises. A few leaded p
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
(Award ceremony speech) Presentation Speech by Professor Anders Olsson, Member of the Swedish Academy, Chairman of the Nobel Committee for Literature
Respectable Mr President,
Not under foreign skies
Nor under foreign wings protected -